A Gentleman's Agreement
by WakeUpRespawn
Summary: AU Slash/Johnlock fic. This wasn't the John he'd been with for so long, back in London. This was a criminal, make no doubt about it. One he'd been chasing for more than a year, a personal crusade that had already cost him dearly. How much more would he pay?


**A Gentleman's Agreement**

Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. (Proverbs 27:6)

He'd been waiting a long time, and the rain had started again. Slow, light, but gradually soaking, leaving him chilled and aching and very tired. Watching an endless procession of streetcars, people, umbrellas, and the endless eternal rain, turning them all gray and uniform.

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the wall and pulled his coat more tightly around himself, turning the collar up. Here on a whim, a solid suspicion based on nothing but old evidence and older recriminations. And now? Was it worth it? Would it pan out? For once, he had no idea. And it struck him again, watching a woman in red hurry by, that he'd lost all perspective. He didn't need anyone to remind him this time. His presence here spoke for itself.

Well, he was here. No refuting that. Might as well go forward. There was nothing behind him.

The clock above the Schweitzerische Kreditanstalt had inched its way to a quarter past four when he saw him. Dark coat, muffler, no umbrella, dirty blonde hair clinging to a well-shaped head. Sherlock swallowed, and stepped forward.

The eddies in foot traffic had cleared for a moment, and he couldn't be missed. He stood by the news kiosk in full view, and waited. There was a blink, the only flash of surprise he expected to receive.

And then John Watson smiled. A cool, slow expression that didn't reach his eyes. Those stayed watchful, wary. "Well. Fancy meeting you here."

Sherlock didn't nod. "John."

"How'd you find me?"

"A hunch."

The smile widened. "That's not your style, Sherlock. Playing only hunches? It's come to that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "People change. Lots of things change. I was right."

John spread his arms wide. "And here I am. What now? Did you bring your 'friends'?"

"Which ones?"

"The ones in Morocco. Or was it Egypt? I forget which."

"They didn't come along this time. It's just you and me."

The smile faded. "Just like old times," John whispered. Then he gave a theatrical look at the clouds overhead. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to conduct this indoors. Unless you really get off on being uncomfortable."

"Coffee would be good."

"Yes, it would. I know a place."

"I imagined you might."

John's choice was two blocks away, down a narrow, twisting Altstadt street. Inside, the café was noisy and blissfully warm. Their coats went on a rack near the door. John was impeccably and expensively dressed: tailored suit in dark gray flannel, pristine white shirt and gray silk tie. Under the lights his hair was shot with a few faint tendrils of gray. Sherlock grimaced at the stark contrast between this wardrobe and the one back in 221B Baker. All jumpers and jeans…

"By the window?" One eyebrow arched as he glanced at Sherlock.

"Paranoid?"

"Do you blame me?"

"Not really."

They sat, and a waiter appeared as if invoked a moment later. "Eine Schalle, bitte," John said, with a decent accent. He looked at Sherlock. "Zwei."

"Sehr gut." The waiter ducked away.

"I'm impressed. I didn't know you spoke German."

John crossed his legs and smiled. "There are a lot of things you never knew about me," he said, and shrugged. "This is another one." He raised his eyebrows. "So what hunch led you to Zürich?" His smile was easy and infectious. "Have I gotten predictable?"

Sherlock's throat tightened. Jesus, after all this, still so John, still so much the man he'd thought he knew so well. "Hardly," he said after a moment. "But you keep some money here. It stood to reason one day you'd want to get it. It was only a matter of time, and a little help from Interpol."

"You've done your homework. Now I'm impressed."

"Cut the crap, John," Sherlock said roughly. "I'm not here to have you arrested."

"Just some chitchat between former flatmates?" John's smile was gone. He looked wary, and a little uncomfortable. "I'm touched." He looked out the window.

"I want you to tell me why you did it."

Still studying the passersby with more than idle intent, John replied, "I told you a year ago." He glanced at Sherlock. "Don't you remember?"

Sherlock nodded. "Because bad guys have more fun," he said slowly.

"Well, I was right about that one." John grinned, flashing white teeth.

Their coffees arrived, and Sherlock eyed his own with reluctant anticipation. He added hot milk and sugar, sipping once, and set his cup back in the saucer. "And the other? Were you right about that?"

"What, about the look on your face?" John drank coffee, still smiling. "That was pretty special. I still wish I had a copy of that surveillance tape. Just to get that moment. Think you could set me up with it?"

The tone was cold, meant to sting, and it did, but Sherlock thought he detected a thread of honesty in it. "That was the real payoff, wasn't it?" he asked bluntly. "Not the money, not the notoriety. You wanted me to see it all. To realize I had been fooled."

John's smile faded. "Some things you just can't buy with MasterCard," he said thinly.

"So it was me."

"Don't go all egotistical on me, okay?" John shook his head. "It was an opportunity. I took it. You were the icing on a really nice cake."

"And now you'll live the rest of your life on the run. The British government won't ever stop looking for you. You must realize that."

John's lips thinned. He looked over at the waiter and lifted his chin. "Zahle, bitte." He took out a hundred-franc note and laid it on the table. "It's been fun," he told Sherlock dryly. "But I got places to go and people to see. No rest for the villainous." When the waiter picked up the note John added absently, "Stimmt schon."

"Vielen Dank, mein Herr." As smoothly as if he received 90-franc tips every day. Maybe he did.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and said, "This life suits you."

That got him a response; John gave him a sharp look, before relaxing into a smile. "You think?"

"Yes. I would have thought it would be stressful, perhaps your old limp back. But you've never looked better."

"Thank you. But as much as I hate to interrupt you in mid-compliment, I have an appointment." John's features settled back into his former faintly amused distance. "So unless you want to come with me, I'll have to go."

"I have nothing else to do."

"You don't. That's a little sad, don't you think?"

Meeting John's glittering stare, Sherlock felt oddly small. Humiliated. "Maybe. I'm all right with that."

"Then by all means. I don't usually have company."

Outside the rain had let up, although the sky was still lowering gray, warning them it hadn't finished yet. John shrugged back into his coat and settled his muffler around his neck. "I like to walk," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's not that far."

"Suits me."

What was he doing? Acting as if this were a pleasure stroll, when the man at his side was wanted by law-enforcement agencies on both sides of the planet. This wasn't the John he'd been with for so long, back in London. This was a criminal, make no doubt about it. One he'd been chasing for more than a year, a personal crusade that had already cost him dearly. What would the ultimate price be? And was he willing to pay?

There was a muted beep, and John fished a cell phone out of his coat pocket. "Yes. Stop worrying. It's all been arranged. Yes, I thought he might. It's not a problem. Fine. Do what you need to do, and leave me out of it." He hung up, mouth tightening, and Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

"Trouble in paradise?"

John glanced both directions before stepping out into the street. "Would that make you happy?"

"I didn't say that."

"Didn't have to. That's okay. I wouldn't expect anything else. We are nothing more or less than who we are. Didn't you tell me that once?"

The wind was freshening, and Sherlock snuggled his coat more tightly around his chest. "I did, yes. Not long after you came to live with me."

"Another lifetime," John said softly.

"No, the same one," Sherlock shot back. "You just threw away yours."

"Don't you throw away things that aren't any good anymore?" John gazed at him, jaw muscle flexing. It was impossible to read his blue eyes in the gray light. "That's all I did, Sherlock."

"You don't think I know that isn't true? Your life had meaning, and you made it meaningless." Sherlock made a face, the taste of his own words bitter on his tongue. "Now what? Run for the rest of your life? Never see your family again. Harry? Your friends? You will be arrested eventually. The world's a smaller and smaller place, and your face is famous. What makes you think the next passerby won't ID you and call the police?"

John kept looking at him, and then threw his head back in a booming laugh. It sounded young, and so very John it made Sherlock's chest hurt. "Oh, hell, half the people ON this sidewalk are probably criminals, too," he said when the laughter was under control. "Besides, you know John doesn't exist anymore. Finding me would be the easiest part, and you know how easy that's been." He shook his head.

"And the people you left behind? What about them?"

"I keep tabs. I know when things happen."

"And you don't mind that you can't see them, speak to them? I know you, John, I know you mind that."

"Correction," John said curtly, lifting a finger. "You knew me. Past tense, Sherlock. Or thought you did. Now? I might as well be a complete stranger, in the ways you mean. Haven't you understood that yet?" He snorted and shook his head. "I'd have thought all this chasing around would have shown you the truth. How can you hunt a bad guy without being able to see inside his head?"

"John -"

"This is us." John indicated a recessed doorway in the building they were passing.

The door led to a small, beautifully furnished room, completely empty at the moment. Sherlock's eyes shot around, quickly taking in the room. A bit of yellow measuring tape in the east corner. Six pins and two sewing needles on the west.

"Your tailor." He remarked swiftly.

A man appeared, bustling through the door at the back of the room and smiling genially at John. Sherlock didn't miss the faintly disparaging look his own attire received. He looked at John and caught his amused smile.

"Very good deduction Sherlock, certainly haven't lost your sense of observation there. But, are you disappointed?" John asked lightly. "You thought this would be something criminal?" He produced a soft laugh and walked forward. "Important, but nothing that cool, believe me."

He spoke in fast German with the tailor, and soon there were fabric samples, silks and wools and blends, in so many colors and textures Sherlock's mind started going blank. John chose quickly and efficiently, and Sherlock's own limited German allowed him to understand the ordering of three suits, and some shirts. He could only imagine the price. No one mentioned any numbers. He supposed that was a good example of the old "if you have to ask" adage.

"Heinrich is amazing," John told him when they were finally outside again. "A friend told me about him last year, and I ordered one suit. I hope he lives forever, because I don't plan to buy from anyone else again. Perfect. Only a few clients. You know, he won't dress Prince Charles. Says he's too dull."

Sherlock gazed at him. "I don't suppose he thinks you're dull."

That got him a laugh. "You never did."

Sherlock stopped by a linden tree, gesturing a little in the waning light. "So what now? Back to Bermuda, or wherever it is you're living?"

"I leave tonight. Not Bermuda." John smiled, almost warmly. "Planning to follow me?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't succeed."

"No. But I like you to try."

"Why?"

John raised his eyebrows. "It's fun. Don't you think? The thrill of the chase. That was all you knew, wasn't it?"

Sherlock paused. "Actually, no."

"Oh? Don't tell me you quit."

"An extended leave."

John grinned. "To pursue your quest," he murmured. "It almost sounds romantic."

"Far from it," Sherlock retorted thinly.

"Come on. If you didn't enjoy it, you'd stop. Too expensive and time-consuming otherwise." John's smile faded, but he kept on looking at him, eyes boring deep. "And you've found me now, but you haven't slapped me in the hoosegow yet. You don't want this to stop. And you want to know why?"

He didn't. But he said nothing, watching John's grin broaden. "Because I give you a reason to get up every morning," John said softly. "I'm your holy grail, Sherlock. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if I was ever caught. Have to go back to your boring London cases, your glow in the dark rabbits. Your PURPOSE." He drew back a little and shrugged. "You don't want me to be caught any more than I do. You just haven't admitted it yet."

The words echoed inside his skull. "I won't chase you forever," Sherlock said unsteadily. "I won't need to. You'll be caught soon enough."

"Maybe. But I doubt it."

They stood very still, staring at each other as the street lights began glowing into life. A gust of chilly wind made John grimace, and he sighed. "Have a drink with me."

"Why?"

A smile that he would have called sad, in that other lifetime John had spoken of. "For old times' sake."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "All right."

John gestured at a cab across the tram rails, and it pulled a U-turn to come alongside them. Stepping up to the rear door, Sherlock glimpsed a tall, bald man standing three doors away. Broad stance, expensive suit and the outline of a handgun along his belt. His face was impassive, watching them closely.

"You have company," Sherlock commented.

"Always," John replied, gesturing for him to get inside.

The interior of the cab smelled smoky, a mix of roasted chestnuts and cigarettes. John slid in next to him, left leg aligning with Sherlock's right. "Eden au Lac, bitte," John said to the cabby, who silently nodded.

"It doesn't alarm you? That you're being watched?"

John grinned and shook his head. "It would alarm me more if he wasn't there." When Sherlock looked his question, John added, "He works for me."

"Bodyguard?"

"Sort of. He does many things for me."

Meeting John's amused eyes, Sherlock wondered exactly what that meant. But he didn't pursue it. Instead he faced forward, trying to ignore the man's proximity. "So this is what you wanted?" he asked. "All that time? The high life?"

"Who wouldn't?"

"Money isn't everything. It certainly can't buy you your freedom."

"You might be surprised what money can buy. If you have enough of it."

Sherlock snorted. "How much did you end up with?"

A soft laugh. "You'd have to ask my accountant. Quite a bit."

"Lastrade seems to think it's in the neighborhood of several billion."

"Pounds or dollars?"

"Dollars."

"Lastrade has adequate sources. You should trust his opinion. At least as far as you trust anything, or anyone."

Sherlock glanced at him. John's profile was heartbreakingly clean in the glow of streetlights. "They say every man has his price. Guess that was yours."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call me cheap." John smiled and slid his arm over the back of the bench, fingers brushing Sherlock's coat collar. "What's your price, Sherlock? If you're right, you've got one, too."

"I'm not taking your money."

"I wasn't offering to pay you."

Sherlock swallowed and felt horribly unbalanced. This John was so far removed from his John it physically hurt his chest. He turned back to look at the back of the cabbie's head. "You're right. I don't know you."

"No. But you could."

"I doubt that."

"Have I been wrong yet? You know I haven't. I've learned your methods Sherlock. I see …" John stopped and corrected himself. "I _observe_. More than ever now. Thanks to you." His delivery was biting.

"You think you have all the answers?"

"Didn't you always?" John stated bluntly. "But yes, I do in this case. All the ones that count."

Acutely aware of John's arm above his shoulders, Sherlock just shook his head.

The taxi let them out in front of the massive hotel, where a rain-soaked wind whipped off the water, cold slicing right through Sherlock's coat. "I think that drink should be hot," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Come on."

The concierge nodded at John as they passed, making their way to the bar. Not many guests, which suited Sherlock fine. Divested of their coats, they sat at a small glass-topped table and ordered drinks.

"Are you hungry? We can order something."

Sherlock took in John's comfortable slouch and shifted in his chair. "No, thanks." He sipped his drink. "Everyone left, you know," he said after a moment. "Everyone but Lastrade."

"Then maybe it was time for a change."

With a flare of anger Sherlock sat forward. "Do you know what they went through, when it was all over?" he snapped in a low, savage voice. "Do you know what you cost them?"

John wasn't smiling, but his expression was curiously withdrawn. "I'm sorry about the fallout," he said formally. "Unavoidable."

"Christ. You don't care, do you? You never did." Sherlock spat.

"Not true," John retorted. "I cared a lot. And it got me nothing, Sherlock. Nothing at all."

"What was it supposed to get you? Did you want a prize? Is that why you decided to become a criminal? If no one gave you what you thought you deserved, you'd take it instead?"

"What do you want me to say?" John's face had gone pale, nostrils flared. "Do you want an apology? Or do you want more?" He set his glass on the table and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward. His eyes blazed with anger, and something else Sherlock recognized, something that made his mouth go dry.

"Do you know," Sherlock said slowly, "how often I've tried to understand why you did it? At what point you stopped being the man I knew, the man I lived with for years? But I never could. You had to plan, and that means you started planning a long time before you did it. And I never saw it. I NEVER saw it. How long did it take? A month? Six months, to plan one hour that made everything else meaningless?"

"Is that what you think it was? Do you think you're the only one who can be brilliant? Always thinking of me as the bumbling doctor? Just a sidekick?" John's face was still white, but bitterness shone in his eyes now instead of anger. He smiled, without humor. "As to your one question," he continued, sitting back and sipping his drink, "almost a year. You don't just walk out of the house one morning and say, 'I think I'll go to the shop, pick up the dry cleaning - and oh, while I'm on my way back I'll steal something so valuable it's gonna put me in prison for the rest of my life, and I'll do such a good job of it that they'll never catch me.'" He shook his head. "The other question? Academic. Doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Sherlock whispered.

John drained his glass and looked at his watch. "I have to go."

"Go where?"

"I need to pack. Leaving tonight, remember?"

"I could make a call right now." Sherlock stated coolly; the taste of bourbon in his mouth had turned bitter. "You know that."

"Yeah." John eyed him with something like tiredness. "And I know that you won't. A gentleman's agreement, right? Truce, for a few hours."

"I can find you again."

"Can you? Then I'll look forward to it. Good night, Sherlock."

Suddenly alarmed, for no reason his mind would admit, Sherlock stood, watching John stand and absently brush his jacket back into its former pristine lines. "Don't go," he said without thinking. "Not yet."

"Miles to go," John retorted, flashing a perfect grin. "I've already taken more chances than I would under any other circumstances. Surely you see that."

"One more hour. It won't make that much difference compared to the risks you've already taken."

John gazed at him steadily for a moment. It wasn't a look Sherlock was familiar with. A mature look, a calm assessment: risk, potential payoffs, calculation. This was the man who'd spent a year - a full year - planning a crime Sherlock had never suspected. And hidden those plans so well Sherlock still spent long moments marveling at its flawlessness. It was truly a wonder; Moriarty has nothing on John in this moment.

And he saw the second when John decided. "Then you'll have to come upstairs," he said briskly. "You'll forgive me if I multitask."

"Of course."

He saw security cameras on their way to the blue-carpeted stairs. Mycroft would find the footage interesting, Sherlock was sure of that. Sherlock, would you care to explain yourself? Why you walked up those stairs as if it were a friendly meeting? No cares in the world? Have you gone barking mad?

Yes, Sherlock thought, eyes on John's straight back as he started climbing. I think I have.

John's suite was on the top floor. Sherlock observed John puffing just the faintest bit at the final few steps. Good; at least he was human.

"No guards?" Sherlock asked, watching John unlock the door.

"Don't be too sure of that." John swung the door wide. "Apres tu."

The suite was as opulent as Sherlock expected, in this terribly elegant hotel. Tones of blue and cream and gold. The wide fireplace was laid with logs and kindling, ready against the damp chill of the evening. The living room was long and narrow, furnished with impeccable taste. There were few items that spoke of John's presence. How could there be? He hadn't been there long enough.

"Did you really want to see where I was staying?" John had come up behind him, and Sherlock's hackles rose at the sudden proximity. "Or was there something else you wanted?"

Sherlock turned, braced and still unready for the power in John's now dark, fiery eyes. Sherlock internally struggled with the stark contrast he was formally used to, but his darkened thoughts didn't betray an outside control. "I'm not sure," Sherlock stated flatly.

John's eyes narrowed, and his mouth curved in a slow, unbearably sensuous smile. "I am," he murmured, and reached out to cup Sherlock's cheek with his hand. "You wanted to know why," he continued; thumb stroking Sherlock's skin. His touch sent a sizzle of electricity arcing up Sherlock's spine. "But you already know. You always knew."

"I don't understand." Sherlock's eyes flared, testing John.

John took a step, closing the minute distance between them. "Isn't it obvious," he replied, and curved his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him into a hard kiss.

There was a second of absolute shock, the press of John's mouth against his own, almost painfully tight, and then Sherlock pulled back sharply. This close he could see his own reflection in John's eyes, hear the rapid in-and-out of his breathing. John's hand dropped away, and Sherlock almost cried out.

Unsmiling, John whispered, "That's your reason. I fucked you a year ago, Sherlock. In front of God and everyone." He drew a fast, noisy breath. "I showed ALL of them how you could be fooled. THEY were fooled. I did it. I FOOLED YOU. The 'Great Sherlock Holmes'. I fucked you over and all you've wanted every day since is to fuck me back. That's why you're here. Isn't it?"

With a strangled sound Sherlock pushed the center of John's chest, sending him thudding back against the wall. John's mouth was open under his own, letting him do it, fingertips barely touching Sherlock's sides. The taste of him opened a chasm under Sherlock's feet, head spinning, desire so acute it was like being stabbed, or immolated.

Then John pushed a little, too, mouth fused with Sherlock's while he fumbled out of his suit coat. Under the silky material of his shirt heat baked from his skin, and Sherlock pulled unthinkingly, yanking the shirttail out, running his hands up John's sides. John made a thick sound and pulled at his tie, until it was gone and his shirt was open, breaking the blaze of that kiss long enough to pull the shirt over his head.

"Was this part of your plan?" John rasped, eyes locked with Sherlock's.

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"No," John said, and closed his hand around Sherlock's wrist.

By the time they reached the bedroom their clothes were gone. Later he tried to remember that stumbling progress and couldn't. There was only the painful honesty of those kisses, the feel of John's body against his own.

He shoved, hard, and John bounced a little when he hit the bed. The sight of that luminous, incinerating grin made Sherlock feel dizzy. John's body was every bit the finely muscled shape he remembered, slightly tanned, horribly beautiful.

"Now's your only chance," John whispered, arms sliding above his head. His thighs sagged apart. "Is that honest enough for you?"

And he fit so well, every part of his body melded against John's, sliding between those legs as if it were a place he'd been made to go, to be. "Yes," Sherlock whispered against John's mouth. "It is."

When he thrust inside him he saw pain on John's face. Not the physical kind. No, whatever John's secret history, the stories Sherlock would never hear, never know, this sort of joining was definitely not new. But John's light eyes were wide with grief, and terrible desire. His legs wrapped around Sherlock's hips, clinging so tight it hurt.

"Say it," Sherlock hissed, wanting to howl at the hot delicious feel around his cock. "Say it."

John's face contorted, part pain and part triumph. "No."

"Say you did it all because of me. Say it, John."

John stretched his head back, eyes tightly closed and groaning when Sherlock bent to press a hard sucking kiss on his throat. "Of course I did," he gasped, and lifted to meet Sherlock's mouth with his own.

It hurt when he came. Hurt because John's body was squeezing him so tight, flexing with John's own shouted orgasm, hurt because this was it, this was all the story he would ever get or ever need. Sherlock stared down at John's contorted face and pushed himself as far as he could, as deep as John's body would take him, and coughed a hoarse cry of painful joy, entire body jerking in helpless, endless spasms.

When it was done, he sagged down, covering John's trembling body with his own. John's hand stroked the back of Sherlock's neck, tracing gentle lines down his spine.

"Come with me," John whispered against Sherlock's ear. "Come with me, and never look back."

He'd thought he knew what this pain was like. Only a minute ago. But this was pain. This was being drenched with gasoline and lying helpless while John tossed the match. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, burying his face in the curve of John's throat, inhaling the clean sweaty smell of him, tongue flickering out to taste his salty skin.

"I can't."

John's hand stilled. "Yes, you can. Just come. I'll take care of you. You know I will."

"I know," Sherlock whispered. "I know you would."

"Say yes." John's soft voice was thick with the emotion he hadn't shown before. The old John. His John. "We can stop it. Stop all of it…please…"

Drawing back enough to look in John's haunted eyes, Sherlock shook his head minutely. "No, John. We can't. I can't."

John's throat worked as he swallowed. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again the brief clarity was gone. His gaze was shuttered, coolly regretful. "Then that's it."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes."

It hurt again, more distantly, when John rolled away. He reached for the white chenille robe housekeeping had no doubt left for guests at the foot of the rumpled bed. "A drink?" he asked, standing and shrugging easily into the garment. His eyes didn't meet Sherlock's. "I need one."

"All right."

"I'll get it. Bourbon, right?"

Sherlock didn't reply, watching John pad silently into the other room.

And now that it was done, how did he feel? Exhausted. Yes. Tiredness far deeper than the body. Why had he said no? What did he have to lose?

His soul? Did he even have one anymore?

John returned with two tumblers, one already half-empty. He handed Sherlock the other glass, deftly avoiding touching Sherlock's fingers with his own. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff. "Zum wohl," he murmured, and downed the rest of his drink.

The bourbon tasted sweet, thick on his tongue. Yes, if ever there was a time when he needed a drink, it was now. The alcohol burned pleasantly in the back of his throat, a welcome warmth opening down to his belly.

"I'm sorry," John said tonelessly, turning to look at him. "But you know I can't take any more chances."

"What?" Sherlock asked, but the thickness of his tongue was worse, far worse than a double shot of even the best bourbon on the planet could explain. He tried to sit up, and the beautiful bedroom canted to the left, lights haloed with glowing gold.

"…gave me something," he tried to say, and sagged back.

"Of course I did." John pushed him a little, yanking the bedspread away and draping it over him. His hands were almost ridiculously careful, tucking the warm weight around him. But his eyes were watchful, distantly regretful. "It'll wear off in six hours." His mouth curved in a twitch of a smile, seen through Sherlock's blurring eyes. "Don't worry, the suite's paid for."

"John," he tried to say, but nothing came out but air.

He felt John's lips pressing a kiss on his forehead, and he closed his eyes.

_"I love you."_

When he woke up, John was gone, of course.

The sedative had left him with a headache, the thick pounding of a drug hangover. But his clothing was draped neatly over a chair, and there were plenty of towels in the spacious bathroom. He took off his watch and glanced at the time after he turned on the taps. Nearly midnight. John's estimate had been right on the money.

He showered slowly. What was the rush? And he was tired, muscles, bones aching. When he toweled off and looked in the mirror, he saw the red hint of a bruise, below his collarbone. A souvenir of something that wouldn't happen again. He sighed, and walked back into the bedroom to dress.

Outside he saw a piece of paper on the desk, weighted down by a tiny, intricately wrought Swiss alarm clock. His fingers didn't shake as he picked up the note.

"I'm not sure I'll see you again, in spite of your confidence. But I meant what I said when I told you I'd look forward to it, if so. If you ever change your mind, I read the International Herald-Tribune frequently. Leave a message. I'll get it. And if not, we have an agreement, don't we? The game is afoot Sherlock. I won't make it easy for you.

JW."

Sherlock folded the paper and slipped it into his breast pocket. Looking around, he drew a long breath. And then went to get his coat before racing to the door.

END


End file.
